22 A TRANSGRESSION

DAMP AIR WHISPERED against Astrid's face as she hurried along the jetty to where one of the three birlinns Tormod Macleod had promised awaited. Nervous excitement fluttered under her ribcage.

Finally, they were heading back to Mull. Her brother would soon have reinforcements. She just hoped they wouldn't be too late.

Farther out, at the mouth to the inlet that led out into Dunvegan Loch, two other galleys had dropped anchor. Running a critical eye over them, Astrid's gaze narrowed.

She'd expected the clan-chief to at least provide the biggest birlinns he had. However, all the galleys she could see were sixteen-oar craft. With two men per oar, this meant that the Macleod's force would be around ninety-six warriors.

Her breathing quickened. It was a decent enough force, but would it be enough to turn the tide against the Mackinnons?

It has to be . Astrid took a deep breath and marched down the jetty to where a tall, muscular young man with wild auburn hair, a fur cloak hanging from his broad shoulders, had stepped off the birlinn. Behind the clan-chief's son, the other warriors laughed and ribbed each other, the mood merry despite the early hour.

Malcolm flashed her a wide grin. "Good morning, Lady Astrid."

"Good morning," she greeted him with a tight smile.

Malcolm's gaze then shifted behind her before he nodded. "Captain MacDonald."

"Morning," Finn replied gruffly.

Astrid tensed. Hades, how awkward it was now.

She'd slept poorly that night, images of what they'd done returning to torment her as the hours slid by. Her breathing had turned ragged as she'd imagined what would have happened had Finn not stopped things. Aye, she was a virgin, yet she'd seen animals couple and knew how bairns were made.

She knew what Finn would do with that impressive swelling within his braies.

But as her fantasies expanded, growing in full, shocking detail, she'd grown restless and sweaty—and confused.

When the first light peeked through the sacking covering the tiny window, Astrid had already washed and dressed. She'd then lifted the bar to the door that separated their chambers and waited for Finn to appear.

He'd done so presently, dressed in his leathers and armed, his heavy fur-lined cloak swinging from his shoulders. However, his expression was shuttered when he looked her way. "Ready to go?" he'd asked, his tone terse.

Astrid had nodded, even as her skin prickled with embarrassment.

Was this how it was to be between them now? Were they to return to barely tolerating each other, to pretending last night hadn't happened?

But it had, and as she stood upon the jetty with the dawn sun kissing her face and the solid walls of Dunvegan Castle rearing above her, Astrid remembered how Finn had pleasured her. Her stomach did a little flip then, her breath catching.

Curse her, she couldn't ever think of him in the same way again. Finn wasn't standing overly close to her now, yet with every step she'd taken as they wound their way down from the sea gate, she'd been keenly aware of his presence.

At some point—once they had privacy—they'd have to speak about what happened.

"Best we get away," Malcolm informed them, jerking his chin toward the eddying water. "The tide is turning."

Astrid nodded and approached the clan-chief's son, allowing him to help her into the galley nearest. Enough worrying about Finn; she needed to focus on reaching Dounarwyse fast—and on what would happen when they did.

"Seat yerself at the bow, Lady Astrid," Malcolm instructed. "MacDonald, take a seat next to Errol" —he gestured to the space next to one of the oarsmen— "and ready yerself to row."

Doing as bid, Astrid perched on a narrow plank near the bow .

But as she put a hand out to grip the railing, fear grasped her by the throat. Suddenly, she was back in the midst of that awful storm, clinging for dear life as waves the size of mountains rose above her. The awful sound of the galley breaking up, the mast and rigging snapping, ripped through her then, as did a vision of the square sail billowing as it kissed the water.

Blind panic surged through Astrid, and she lurched to her feet so quickly that she nearly lost her balance.

A hand shot out, gripping her arm to steady her.

An instant later, Astrid's gaze met Finn's.

He'd just stepped onto the birlinn and was now so close that she could see the flecks of green in his hazel eyes. "Easy, Astrid," he murmured. "It's safe."

"Is it?" Her voice caught as terror gripped her by the throat once more. "Or will we come to grief again … and meet a watery end like the rest of our crew?"

Tension rippled across Finn's face. "It was a freak storm, lass," he replied, his voice still low so that the warriors seated at the oars behind them wouldn't overhear. "If the sea was that wild usually, no one would ever set sail."

Astrid stared back at him, fear still beating hysterically against her ribs. She wanted to believe him, yet the memories were all so fresh—and stepping back on this birlinn brought everything to the fore.

Tears pricked her eyelids then, and she swallowed hard.

Weak woman , she inwardly raged at herself, as she spied Malcolm looking her way. Now isn't the time to crumble.

"Astrid?"

She snapped out of her reverie to find Finn's brow furrowed, worry shadowing his eyes. "Are ye well?"

Swallowing once more, Astrid nodded. She wasn't, yet she'd do her best to keep herself together.

Loch is relying on me. My clan is relying on me . She repeated the words in her head as she lowered herself to her seat once more. I can't let them down .

The reminder helped, and she managed to push herself back from teetering on the edge of panic.

Satisfied that she wasn't going to try and scramble off the birlinn and flee back to the castle, Finn moved on, settling himself next to Errol, while Malcolm unmoored the galley .

Astrid dragged in a long, slow breath before letting it out gently through her nose. Steadying her breathing helped, and although her panic and fear still simmered, she stayed put while the men used their oars to push the birlinn out through the shallow inlet toward the loch.

Reaching down, her fingers traced absently over the two belts she'd strapped on at her waist. Her dirk and her set of throwing knives. She'd had them cleaned and sharpened the previous afternoon, fearing that the salt water might rust or dull the edges. Wearing the weapons should have bolstered her confidence, yet steel was no match for the wrath of the sea.

No match for the darkness that crowded in whenever a crisis loomed.

Arming yerself thus and having the skill to throw knives and wield a dagger is all well and good, lass , a cruel voice whispered to her then. But what will happen when yer life is in danger and ye must take a man's life with one of the blades ye carry? What then? Will ye lose yer wits as ye almost did just now?

Sanna brought back painful memories of the crew they'd lost.

As Finn trudged up the beach, to where the Macleod force was making camp above the tideline, he glanced up at the cluster of crofts perched on the lush green hillside.

He was relieved they weren't staying in the hamlet—not that it could accommodate their band anyway. Even alighting upon the beach made him remember how Dougie had tripped over while they were hauling the Sea Eagle onto the sand, and how the other lads had ribbed him. He recalled each of their faces as they sat around the fire in the barn that eve—Norris's eagerness and Roy's teasing when they'd played knucklebones. Dougie had been so proud of his newly honed skills at knucklebones, and now the young warrior was dead.

An ache rose under his breastbone, and absently, Finn patted the pouch he still carried at his belt. He hadn't touched the knucklebones since that evening. Usually, when making camp with other warriors like this, he'd rally a group of them for a game once they settled in for the evening. However, today, he didn't have the stomach for it.

Not when the grief was still so raw.

Instead, he joined the men who were putting up the largest of the two hide tents–one for Malcolm Macleod and the other for Astrid Maclean. Everyone else, Finn included, would sleep under the stars.

Finn glanced around him then, looking for Astrid.

He spied her on the beach, with a handful of men, as they scoured the sand for driftwood to fuel the fires overnight. She'd already collected an armload and was making her way back up to the camp.

Even though he knew he shouldn't, Finn tracked her with his gaze. She walked with a straight back, her chin held high. He'd seen her falter that morning though after she'd boarded the birlinn. He'd been loath to set sail again on a birlinn too, for the memories were all very fresh. Alec Rankin's cog had been different, somehow. The vessel was larger for one thing, and it was taking them away from the isle where they'd been stranded. But this galley brought the terror, the loss, back.

Finn had kept a close eye on Astrid as they departed, worried that panic might overtake her, yet she'd kept her nerve.

He averted his attention then, lest she catch him looking. The woman was full of contradictions—and her response to him the night before had been another surprise.

She'd kissed him with hunger, had been eager for his touch, and exquisitely responsive.

Heat kindled in his gut as he recalled how she'd shattered against his tongue. He couldn't touch her like that again, but he'd never forget what they'd shared.

Reining in his wayward thoughts, Finn surveyed the men surrounding him. This evening, their moods were subdued, their gazes inward. Battle was on the horizon. It would take them most of the following day to reach Mull, yet reach it they would. And when they did, no one knew what awaited them.

Finn picked up a wooden stake and drove it into the soft sand, his mouth thinning. By the time they returned to Mull, they'd have been away six days.

Anything could have happened in the meantime.

The Mackinnons could have destroyed Dounarwyse's defenses .

Kendric Mackinnon could now be the new laird of the broch.

Scowling, Finn tried to banish the worries. Nonetheless, as soon as he did, new ones crept in.